Retribution (31 page)

The walls shook as she lit the candles. Completing the job, she looked around. Too many quivering shadows. Chiding herself, she turned to the next task. “Trina, lift your hips if you can. I need to pull off your jeans.”

Together they struggled to remove the sodden clothes.

She covered Trina with one of the throws.

The contractions seemed to come every minute. Trina's face held beads of sweat even as Lillian grappled with her own trauma, fearing Trina and the baby would die.

With her terrified mind only half working, Lillian tried to process what else she might need.
Something to wrap the baby in. Suction to remove gunk from the mouth.
What else, what else?
Her brain refused to cooperate.
God, I have no idea what I need. Help me!
“I have to go to the baby's room. I'll hurry.” Lillian reassured even as she stood.

Trina's eyes were closed, her mouth a tight line stretched across a ghostly white face.

The nursery, usually full of light and softness, now stood dark and foreboding. Jerking open drawers, Lillian found blankets and grabbed all of them. Then the nose sucker thing—she didn't know if it had a name—and a hairbrush and fingernail scissors. Thunder ricocheted. She needed to get back to Trina. She grabbed at random: a knit hat and a pair of white satin baby shoes.

~*~

As the storm pressed against the walls, the bedroom seemed less protective.

Sandra was grateful for the darkness; at least Jimmy could not see the panic on her face. “One more move, Jimmy,” she murmured, stroking his soft hair.

The boy stared without blinking as she pulled him to the hall.

“We can sit here; there won't be as much noise.” With a shaking hand, she latched the bedroom door in front of them and crouched against the long wall. “It will be all right.” She pulled the frightened boy closer, pressing her mouth against the top of his head. “God will take care of us.”

They rocked back and forth, bodies molded together.

The wind raged around the house, thrashing against shutters and siding. Lightning battled the darkness, the silvery shards slipping around the edges of the living room curtains, sending ghostly streaks across the hall.

Jimmy pushed his head harder into her chest.

Glass crashed in the living room. Wet cold followed.

Dear God, help us!

Terrified, Sandra grabbed Jimmy and headed to the last safe place she could think of.

~*~

After stumbling down the stairs, Lillian dumped the supplies on the floor. Now came the hard part, even harder than enduring the raging storm that beat for admittance. But if the baby was coming, she had to do it. Swallowing the embarrassment that colored her face, she knelt at Trina's feet.

She had never looked
down there
at another woman before, and guilt filled her with dread. She touched Trina's legs. “Honey, I need you to bend your knees up.” She tucked the blanket over Trina's legs just like they did at the doctor's office, leaving her a view of the birth area
. Water and a wash cloth, why didn't I think of water?

The flicker of candles reflected against Trina's pain-filled eyes. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

All the bathrooms were upstairs. It would be impossible to get Trina that far. What to do? She tried to think of options, like a mason jar or a bowl. None of them would work in Trina's condition. “Honey, I don't know what to do. Just pee where you are. It's all right.”

Trina thrashed on the cushions. “I don't have to pee!”

“Oh
. Oh
! That's good news,” she said, hoping God would see the fear that clutched her heart. “That means the end is close.” What had the nurses told her when she had been at this point in labor? “When your next contraction starts, you need to push, just like you're having one gigantic poo.” Her own tense muscles squeezed until she felt like the top of her head should fly off. Was this the right advice? Maybe Trina shouldn't push yet. She glanced toward the front of the house, forgetting she had covered the glass doors. If only help would come.

Trina cried out and groaned. Her face reddened as she pushed. Tissue bulged.

“Trina, I just saw the top of the baby's head!”

With each push, more of the baby's crown emerged, wrinkled and looking more like brain than skull. Was it supposed to look like that?
Oh, God, don't let anything be wrong with this baby…

“I'm so tired,” Trina mumbled. “I can't do this anymore.”

The flickering light against Trina's flushed and sweating face reminded Lillian of the birth of Jesus. Mary must have been just as frightened as Trina, and she may have had just as little help. She had no idea how long they had been in the hall. “You're doing great, honey. One more time when you feel the contraction.”

A moan escaped Trina's lips. “One's coming.”

“Push hard!”

The head came out!

Lillian grasped the slippery surface tenderly. Another contraction and another push, but the baby remained in place. Quaking with uncertainty, she wondered if she was supposed to pull on the head. Didn't babies just pop out? Frozen with panic, unsure what to do, she watched as the head turned from face-down to sideways, rolling smoothly in her hands.

Engulfed in the drama of birth, she no longer heard the storm. With a mighty whoosh, baby boy Hancock filled her hands. Trembling, she laid him on the cushion between Trina's legs, grabbed the suction gizmo, and gently pulled secretions from his mouth.

He lay silent and unmoving between his mother's bloodied legs.

~*~

Sandra struggled to rise from the floor. Her muscles refused to obey her unconscious thoughts, so tight from fear. The hall had suddenly become a wind tunnel complete with lashing rain. Giving little thought to anything but saving her grandson's life, she pulled him up from his crouched position against the hall wall. “Come on, Jimmy, we're going to the bathroom.” Her voice sounded other-worldly as it became caught up in the maelstrom around them.

The boy looked pale and lethargic. “But Gram, I don't have to go.”

Without responding, she pulled Jimmy into the bathroom and closed the door behind them.

Standing in the middle of the small space, he looked up at his grandma. His trusting eyes pierced her heart.

Would she fail his trust?

Something smashed against the house and Jimmy began to whimper.

Sandra wrapped her arms around him but he remained stiff in her arms, no longer melting into her protection. Tears filled her eyes as her heart pounded against her ribs. If only Bill were here…

When another loud volley of thunder shook the floor beneath her feet, the need for security became overwhelming. Sandra picked up Jimmy and placed him in the tub, then crawled in on top of him, covering his slight body with hers.

Even facedown, her eyes hurt from the sudden glare. Pain burned from her nerve endings, as though she were on fire.

And then the bathroom wall collapsed.

~*~

The horror was worse than any she had ever experienced. She had failed when needed the most. This time her absence had not been the cause, but her presence made the outcome even more sickening. She had delivered a dead baby!

The blue, but perfectly formed baby lay silently on the cushions.

Guilt pressed against Lillian. Breath refused entry into her leaden lungs as she stared at her failure.

The small chest expanded and a faint, quivering sound passed between purple lips.

With wide eyes, Lillian gathered the baby in her arms. As she stared at him, he emitted a hearty wail. Nothing had ever sounded more beautiful. Tears streamed down her face and then she jumped into motion, wrapping the crying infant in one of the dozen or so blankets she had brought downstairs. She placed him on Trina's chest. “Here is your baby boy,” she murmured, her arms aching to hold the child, but knowing he belonged to another. But she had saved him! Never had she felt more pride. More love.

Trina stroked her son's cheek, her smile of love all the more powerful in the flickering candlelight.

Common sense told Lillian to hunt for towels and clean the new mom, but her arms and legs wobbled like bands of rubber. She slid down the wall beside mother and baby.

Thank You, God. Thank You.

Within a half hour, the storm abated. The squad arrived just before the car came squealing into the drive, Ted at the wheel. He dashed into the house, followed by Bill.

Mother and son sat peacefully on the cart, a paramedic on each side.

Ted stopped. His mouth spread in a silent circle. Arms hung at his sides.

“Come and see our son,” Trina murmured.

He leaped to his wife's side and smothered her in his embrace. With shaking fingers, he stroked his son's cheek. Eyes round with wonder, he touched the hair that looked as if it would be blond once it was clean.

Ted turned. “Come and see your grandson.”

A sob caught in Lillian's throat and tears dripped of her chin. This is what she had at one time. And yes, she wanted it again: the unity and bond that family provided. Her thoughts turned to Roger. Then her mind drifted to Paul. She allowed the daydream. A life with Paul could never happen. But Roger—she could have a life with Roger.

The paramedics rolled Trina out of the house, Ted close beside her.

Lillian knew she would never be the same again. God had guided her hands when she became incapable. On her first trip to Darlington, she had prayed to be allowed to make a difference, and she had. Around her lay the evidence: soiled cushions and piles of unused baby items. Feeling as though she could float, she began gathering the stained items that bore testimony to the miracle that had just taken place.

God had been there all along, even when she had turned her back on Him. And today, when she needed Him the most, He had been at her side, ever faithful.

But doubt crept into her thoughts. Had God been there for her or for Trina?

Trina's words had seared her heart. If Bill felt death surrounding her, it must mean she would, eventually, be a danger to someone close to him. She shook her head against the thought. She would never intentionally cause harm.

Her foot bumped against a candle, tipping it over. The flame flickered greedily on the wood floor and she stomped her foot on the hungry tongue. She stared at the blackened area that already made a mark that remained on the wood.

23

Almost as soon as the thunder emitted its last soft growl, Roger's cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and groaned. The “Cleveland Contact,” as she wanted to be referred to. No names. It was always her way, and it always had been, ever since he had known her.

“What?” He didn't bother to mask his anger, hoping it would limit their conversation to essentials. If he could change one thing in his messed up life, it would be agreeing to help her.

“Update me on your plan.” Her voice flowed smoothly, almost sensually. “You do have one don't you? Or have you forgotten why you're still in Darlington?”

Rage bubbled just beneath the surface of his skin. A little more heat and his resentment would break open, but the only one to wear the scars would be him. “We need to talk.”

“Go ahead and talk.” The sound of ice tinkling against glass filtered through the phone. She must be drinking again. Great. There was no reasoning with her when she was drunk, which seemed to be most of the time.

“Lillian isn't like what we thought.”

Raucous laughter jarred his ear. Gone was the attempt to be coy. Now the real woman emerged: a drugged-out, drunken has-been holding all the cards. A hungry barracuda anxious to feed. “You're going soft on me. You never did have any backbone.”

“Listen, she doesn't deserve to die.” He knew his words would mean nothing, but he had to say them. He had to tell her they were making a mistake.

Something pounded on a hard surface, either her glass or her fist. Her voice screamed through the phone. “She killed my husband. And she killed my daughter,
your wife
, in case you have forgotten her.”

Blood ran hot through his fists. His hands quivered in rage. Good thing she was in Cleveland or he would choke her to death—just as her husband had taught him. “How dare you think I would forget my wife or my child? Where were you when I buried them, one at a time? You didn't even have the decency to show up even once.” She didn't want anything to do with him then, but oh, now…now that she needed someone to do her dirty work, now she needed him. Her raspy breaths carried as though she were standing beside him. His skin prickled.

“So what will you do about the woman responsible for their deaths?”

“Lillian is not responsible.” His heart hammered against his ribs. The ache of defeat tried to swallow him. No matter the outcome, he would lose.

“You can think what you want, but I still hold you to your promise. My fingers can send this file to the police anytime I want.” She laughed. “Ah, the wonders of the digital world. Instant send.”

He knew the contents of the file; it would land him in prison for life. Even get him a death sentence. Death didn't sound all that bad right now, but even his death would not save Lillian.

“You have three days.” Her words hissed like a cobra preparing to strike.

The line went dead.

The sickle of death swung toward his throat. Three days. He threw the phone against the far wall where it broke into pieces.

~*~

Bill stood beside Lillian, both of their shoulders sagging with exhaustion.

The blankets had been removed from the glass doors, the floor scrubbed, and the soiled towels and blankets put to wash. The couch cushions now lay outside, the only remaining testimony of what had taken place.

“I need to thank you for what you did.” Bill knew words failed to portray what he wanted to express. For the past hour, he had tried to thank her. If she had wanted to cause harm, today had been the perfect opportunity. After all, what did she know about birthing babies? He scratched the top of his head. Kind and loving, a believer in God, yet gripped by the icy hand of death.
God, what are You trying to share with me?